New Year's Ball
by Sandy87
Summary: A short fic, no real purpose to it. Done as an accompaniment to a picture; uploaded here for your reading pleasure.


New Year's Ball

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A short fic, written to go with a pic on my DA account (that seems to be how all mine are these days: story pics). Just a small reflection of what might cross Angela's mind if she saw them together. 

Disclaimer: I own nada; it's all Insomniac's. I'm just borrowing it a bit.

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Angela Cross sighed and slouched against a wall. She hated parties. Hated them. It didn't matter that her prescence there helped Megacorp-Solana relations; parties were a pain. They kept her away from her work, forced her to mingle with people who were dazzled not by a complex discovery, but by complex footwork. And dancing wasn't really her forté. Even the slow waltz playing was too complicated for her to follow the intricacies of flawlessly. What was a simple one-two-three count for most became one-two-trip for her. 

She had attempted dancing once, just once. Ratchet had talked her into comming to the gala honoring Clank's new Holovid series, so he "wouldn't be the only lombax there". And then he'd talked her into dancing, because he "felt stupid leaning on the wall when the music was too loud to talk over". He'd attempted to teach her the dance steps he'd learned at Megacorp's training. Of course, with her glaceless feet, what should've been fun turned into an endless chorus of, "Ow, that's my tail!" "Angela, you're on my foot." "Watch your step." "You okay?" And of course the stares from other dancers. They made an awkward couple at best.

"Awkward" was putting it nicely. Most things in Angela's life could be counted as "awkward", but her relationship with Ratchet took the cake. Part of the problem was her height - he only came to about her ribcage. Were it not for Ratchet's somewhat-mature face and voice (and his habit of using it often), he could've been mistaken for her son. Her son, he was that short! Or was it that she was that tall? She hadn't exactly known a lot of lombaxes in her lifetime, growing up away from her home galaxy.

Of course there were other factors. Ratchet wasn't exactly brave when it came to women, and Angela herself was no queen of relationships. Emotions were too illogical for her. She couldn't line them up on a petri dish and expect them to make sense. Her mind, so quick with problems reguarding reasoning and logic, was lost in the realm of interpersonal relations. She had learned, over time, how to avoid outright offending others, but she hadn't quite grasped the concept of much more than that. It took something she couldn't understand, something just beyond her reach. It was like something inside her, one neuron or gene or something, was missing. She'd have to remember to check her own DNA sometime.

Her mind continued to wander, first from one idea to the next. Physically, she was still - so still that the dancers on the floor seemed to not notice her at all, her blue dress blending into the blue wall. But mentally, she ran everywhere, tirelessly. It enabled her to work, to keep moving foreward at all times, despite her ballance limitations on physical activity. Unlike Ratchet, whose body often reacted before he'd fully thought out his movement...

"...Ratchet...!" Angela's head shot up. Who had been reading her thoughts? She looked around, straining to hear over the music. That was another thing she hated about parties: they were loud. Her ears, already that of a sensative species, seemed to be all the more sensative. She wasn't sure why, or how, but she found the noise almost deafening. At least it was soft music, a gentle waltz, and not some screaching pop star. She'd been nervous to attend a New Year's party, not wanting to hear the latest "Auld Lang Sine" remake, but so far it seemed to be all right. But who had mentioned Ratchet?

Other dancers passed in front of her, following the music. One-two-three, one-two-three...she could count the steps in her head, just not in her feet. One-two-three, one couple...one-two-three, two couples...one-two-three, three couples... Nothing. She must've been hearing things...no! There, not ten feet away, was Ratchet. But who was he with?

Who _was_ he with? Angela didn't recognize her. In fact, Angela didn't even recognize her species. She was almost lombaxian, but not. Darker fur, different face... But just about Ratchet's height. Angela couldn't see her feet to know if she was wearing heels or not, but she was only four, maybe five inches taller. Ratchet certainly didn't seem to mind _that_ small difference in size; he was leaning quite comfortably against her cheek, smiling up at her and completely ignoring the other dancers. And the few wallflowers keeping Angela company, as well as Angela herself.

She thought she'd managed to rid herself of emotion towards the lombax, but a wave of jealousy swept over her as she watched them. Her eyes felt slightly moist at the edge. They looked so...happy. And so normal together. Interspecies relationships weren't unheard of, particularly when the two looked as similar as they did. Why then couldn't she, a seemingly normal lombax, hold a relationship with her own kind? _She_ should have been the one with her arm around his shoulders. _She_ should have been the one laughing quietly, rubbing her face against his. Why couldn't _she_ have the lucky break?

Because, she knew, they were as different as night and day. She could see the differences between herself and Ratchet. She was an utter neat freak; she couldn't stand clutter and disorder. The smallest change in routine or schedule upset her. And Ratchet thrived on them all. Something new, something different? A huge mess? He was probably in the thick of it - and more than likely its cause, too. She'd nagged him to no end; it was a wonder he'd been able to date her for any amount of time. And again, she was far clumsier than he - or the girl he danced with. She moved quickly along with him, her feet matching his steps easily. Small feet, and in small heels, Angela could now see. And very thin ankles. _Very_ thin, like they'd break if she stepped wrong.

The music ended, but Ratchet and the girl didn't part. They didn't seem perfectly at ease together, but it wasn't awkward. More like giddiness; Ratchet was in no way good at hiding his emotions, so that even Angela could pick up on them. He turned and said something to the girl, whose shoulders convulsed in withheld laughter. They were their own little world, a minigalaxy of just the two of them. She'd never quite gotten that with Ratchet...would she ever get that with anyone? She looked at a clock, its display glowing on the wall across the large room. 11:59. She'd have to distract herself for a minute; she didn't care to be reminded that she'd spent the entire holiday season alone.

She fixed her eyes on the colon in the center of the display. She would not look away, would not allow others to see her moment of depression and weakness. Her unshed tears were her secret. The reason for them was a secret to even herself, as the emotion blinded her to her ability to reason it out. She was jealous, she admitted, but that was all. Nothing more.

12:00 flashed on the clock. Someone began to sing, a dreadful rendition of "Auld Lang Sine", horribly off-key. Others joined in, drowning out the first, but now the song was everywhere. Angela put her fingers in her ears. She _hated_ that song. Glancing around herself, she noted a doorway. Outside. She was only required to stay until midnight anyway; why torture herself longer? Pointedly, she glared around the room at the fools singing, then marched towards the door.

"New Year's resolution: do not attend New Year's parties."


End file.
